Alone
by Blaire Finnan
Summary: Part 2 to my 'Little Miss Holmes' Series. Approx. three months after John and Sherlock become flatmates. An unexpected visitor arrives. Rating is for...no idea actually...
1. Introductions

_Be sure to read the one-shot 'Her Beginning' before continuing...thank you!_

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The rain was pouring down so hard, John could barely see the signs in front of him. He squinted at the sign, and took the road, only praying he was really walking down Baker Street. Drenched to the skin, now shivering in the cold, he was tired and a little… annoyed. Finally, he reached 221B, and he fumbled with his keys, almost cursing when he dropped them in the puddles on the usually grimy pavement.

"John, get up here," he heard the low, masculine voice of his flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, shout from upstairs. John sighed, clenching his jaw silently, and walking up the stairs slower than usual just to annoy his friend. As he stood in the doorway to the apartment, he glanced around the room, and noticed a girl sitting in one of the chairs…well, she looked in her late teens. Twenty at the most. Sherlock was staring at her, silently, his deep blue eyes flicking up and down. John forced a polite smile on his face, and stepped into the room, as the girl turned her own strikingly blue eyes to John. She didn't even glance at his outstretched hand, but kept her gaze on his own blue eyes as she reached to shake it.

"Dr. Watson…I have heard so much about you," she said. Her voice was low in itself, her face absolutely dead serious as she spoke. The more John looked at her, the more she seemed to have seen too much for her young life from the trouble in her eyes, and serious expression. Even her posture was too straight for a teenager.

"I wish I could say the same," he said, sitting on the only remaining chair in the room, and turning to Sherlock. "Can we talk?" he asked quietly. Sherlock kept staring at the girl.

"No," he said, acting like his usual childish behavior. John stood up now.

"Let's talk," he said, making it a command. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood, walking into the kitchen. John flashed an apologetic smile to the girl, and followed Sherlock into the adjoining room.

"What is going on?" he asked Sherlock in a forced whisper. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he spoke, fixing his gaze a little behind John as he impatiently waited for him to continue with his questions. "Who is that woman, and why is she here?" John continued. A pause followed his angry questions, and then Sherlock stared at him with little emotion on his face.

"Are you done?" he asked. John huffed indignantly, but nodded after a moment. "Good," Sherlock said, turning and striding back into the sitting room. "Sit down John…" he said loudly. "We have a problem." John sat down, and waited for someone to answer his questions. The girl stared at Sherlock as though he was some sort of vermin, and then flashed an apologetic smile to John, which totally changed her face.

"Well, if he won't introduce us, then I will," she said. Flicking a strand of silky, especially dark hair out of her face, she smiled at John. "My name is Enola. Sherlock is going to look after me for a few days." John looked shocked, and then amused.

"He's going to-to look after you?" he actually laughed out the rest. Enola rolled her eyes.

"Well, Mycroft wouldn't, so I'm a little stuck. And, he won't be actually looking after me. He'll just be letting me stay here for a few days." John now looked confused.

"Why? We've never housed clients before?" Now, Enola smiled sweetly, as if John had just said something childish and stupid.

"I'll let you two talk this through," she said. "Meanwhile, where's the housekeeper?" she asked, standing. "I have a few questions." Sherlock just pointed down the stairs, and she obliged, walking down the stairs quietly. John moved to Enola's now-vacant chair, and stared at Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson will not be impressed at being referred to as a housekeeper, now will she?" he said, followed by silence. "Well?" was all he asked. Sherlock sighed, and then sighed again after a pause.

"I have to house her," he said. At John's raised eyebrows, he leaned back in his chair, and looked at anything but John. "It was Mummy's wish." John's expression froze on his face, before he swallowed quickly.

"I'm sorry…_Mummy_?" he asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Enola is my…well, she's my sister," he finally blurted out, standing and walking away awkwardly. John just kept staring at Sherlock's empty chair, as if he didn't even notice he'd left. Then he turned abruptly to watch Sherlock leave the room, blinking and returning to the mortal world.

"She's your _what_?" he asked, almost in a laugh, standing and rushing down the stairs after Sherlock.

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**A/N: I got two lovely reviews from Part 1, so I couldn't help but post the beginning to my new story! How exciting...**

**Anyway, all inspiration came from staring at the Eiffel Tower through the rain, frantically typing on my laptop, so there it is, my dearies. Be sure to review and I'll give you a fan fiction cookie, all right? :) And be sure to follow me and this story to be updated!**

**- Blaire3**


	2. Outwitting Sherlock

**A/N: Sorry for the delay! Wow, epic work troubles rising lately, so I haven't had much time to repost this stuff...**

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Mrs. Hudson took a fancy to Enola, giving her biscuits, making sure she had her tea, constantly saying that she wasn't her housekeeper. Enola was always so polite, smiling and accepting whatever she was offered, though she rarely ate. Drinking tea seemed to be a constant activity in her life, and, one week later, when John came home from work at the clinic to discover her sitting in the same position on their couch as how he had left her, he made up his mind on a decision he had been pondering for the past few days. As he strode into the room, bustling around the kitchen to make a pot of tea, Enola did not move a muscle. Legs thrown carelessly over the couch as if forgotten, head back against the Union Jack pillow she had moved to the arm of the chair, eyes closed, she appeared to be sleeping. John sat down in one of the remaining chairs and watched her silently, believing her to be asleep. He almost dropped his saucer when she moved her arm to raise the cup of tea to her lips before returning it to the saucer situated precariously on her lap. John cleared his throat now.

"Enola…" he started, before trailing off. Her eyes opened, revealing the same unusual eyes as Sherlock. She smiled and sat up, curling her feet under her as she turned to face him. She sipped her tea again, waiting for John to continue. John stared at the creamy tea in front of him, thinking of a way to phrase his question. "Are you familiar with the practice of medicine?" Enola raised a single eyebrow, before shrugging nonchalantly and standing up to re-fill her cup.

"Not really, why?" she asked. Then a chuckle escaped her and she turned back to John, head cocked to the side slightly in an unconsciously flirtatious way. "Wait a moment," she said. "You want me to come work with you at your practice?" John just watched her, desperately trying to read her facial expressions, and failing miserably. She smiled sweetly at him, something which annoyed him greatly, and returned to sit on the couch, sprawling yet again over the cushions. "My darling John," she began, pausing to sip her tea. "I appreciate the offer incredibly, but I must refuse…I am sorry to say the activity involved while volunteering at a clinic does not interest me, even if its sole reason is for entertainment." She sighed, leaning back in her seat and watching John carefully, reading him better than he her.

"The Holmes family has been graced with many things, John, but social skills and sympathy for others is not to be found on the list." John stared at the woman, before shaking his head quickly.

"How old did you say you were?" he asked. She smirked, standing and walked over to the window.

"I didn't," she said calmly, before picking up Sherlock's violin rather roughly. John raised an eyebrow, briefly considering warning her about the penalties for touching Sherlock Holmes' private possessions, but he stopped when she lifted it under her chin and drew the bow to form a low note. She then proceeded to leap her way up the scales, before breaking out with Beethoven. John sighed, standing and walking into his room, knowing the conversation was over. He stepped into the shower, listening as the music switched from Beethoven to Mozart to something John had never heard before, neither did he recognize. As he towel-dried his hair, throwing on clothes, he listened to the melody, struggling to remember a composer's name. Lost in his own thoughts, he did not notice the music stop abruptly, followed by running footsteps before a crash, a curse, and the banging of something against the wall.

"Who wrote that last one?" John asked as he stepped into the sitting room again, suppressing a yawn. His voice trailed off as he saw Sherlock in the doorway, glowering at one very innocent-looking Enola. His eyes switched between the two of them, before Sherlock turned to John.

"Who wrote the last what?" he asked calmly, his voice even lower than usual. John saw the warning look from Enola and shrugged carefully, sitting down and grabbing the first book he laid eyes on.

"Books," he said, waving it slightly in Sherlock's direction. The detective kept that cold look on his face as he glanced around the room, and he noticed everything…the untidily placed violin back in its case, the slight laboured breath from Enola flinging herself on the couch, and the small scrapes on the floor from when the chair had moved upon Enola jumping onto it. He sighed and turned to Enola; yet, as he opened his mouth to speak, she interrupted him.

"Yes, I know, you deduced exactly what I did…whatever. Although, honestly, I wouldn't have bothered. By the way, your violin does need a good tune, Sherlock. Really, I would have expected you to take better care of your instruments!" Sherlock glared at her, mouth still open, most likely to exclaim his finely accurate deductions. Something which sounded dangerously like a growl died down in his throat and he turned to make a theatrical exit of striding to his bedroom when his sister's voice interrupted him again.

"Also, you shouldn't bother with these silly little cases you solve for the Yard. They're an absolute waste of time." Sherlock froze, back facing them, and John froze, cup halfway to his mouth. Enola smiled at the way she had ruined his exit, and picked up her book, opening to the bookmarked page before concluding with "It's obvious the daughter did it." John blinked once and Sherlock continued down the hall silently, slamming the door of his bedroom shut. Enola simply smirked as she lifted the book to hide her face.

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**A/N: Hope you enjoyed and be sure to leave a review, my dears! An extra cookie to you for it if you do...**


	3. Deductions

**A/N: An extra chapter because I feel so bad...**

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Slowly, people began to realize the great and mighty Sherlock Holmes had a younger sister who was as glamorous and intelligent as her brother. First, it was a DI Lestrade, who stopped by 221B to practically beg Sherlock to come investigate a case…he refused, still upset from his sister's teasing the following night. But, the DI was in for a surprise when a young, yet mature woman offered her assistance instead. Soon, he found himself leading John and this Enola Holmes to the crime scene, lifting the yellow crime tape like a gentleman for the woman who claimed to be related to Sherlock. He didn't see how: yes, she was proud by the way she held herself, yes she was intelligent by her looks and the way she spoke and acted, but how could someone who managed to _kindly_ deduce his entire life story before his eyes possibly be related to the blunt consulting detective? Yes, this flirtatious young woman who winked at _Andersen, _of all people, as she passed him to see the body, could not _possibly_ be related to him. Yet, as John quietly told him what little he knew as Enola stood over the body of the girl, her currently green eyes sweeping over the position of the body, finding factors and rallying them up in her head, before crossing them off as she discovered more evidence, Lestrade finally understood. She may be a whole lot nicer, sociable, and prettier than the man, but she was definitely related to him as she stood and began relaying the way the woman had died.

"The angle of the body suggests she was familiar with her killer, at least enough to turn away from him/her for the smallest amount of time, allowing her killer a few precious moments to strike…and strike he did. One heavy push of both hands over her trapezius muscles in the direction of the brick wall," here she stepped cautiously around the body in her leopard-print flats to point to the wall. "Her forehead and right temple hit first, although she tried to brace herself with her hands. By now, she was dazed from the heavy blow, which was when the killer pulled a previously concealed weapon, a knife, probably some sort of fisherman's knife, and proceeded to stab her three times, twice to her chest cavity, both being blocked by her sternum, before he aimed a little lower, most likely grazing her seventh or eighth vertebra, which is, most likely, cause of death." Here, Enola turned back to the body, obviously not finished re-stating her deductions and conclusions. "She must have bled to death…but he waited. Once she had died, he took her wallet to make it look like a robbery-gone-wrong. But he was frantic; hence the watch and rings which still decorate her hands." She touched the girl's coat.

"Dry…however, most areas in London are still humid and wet from the rain last week, which means she has not been out walking recently. Band around the finger quite loudly suggests she's married, yet something about it tells me otherwise. Too cheap, not well cared for in the least, rarely worn, tells me she is indeed _not_ a married woman, but wishes to portray one to stop the advances of people…or a particular someone. Someone she is afraid of perhaps? Her attire suggest she is in the business field, clothes a good brand, all high up the chain, yet the shoes are extremely uncomfortable, and obviously caused her discomfort from the red lines surrounding her toes…she had not expected to walk a long way, so she most likely is in an office building, around here. She does not carry a briefcase, ruling out accounting and law, yet she is still highly paid. There is a slight oil smudge on her heels, suggesting she has been in the employee closets of the Tube somewhat recently. Also, the slight ink smudge from her hand suggests she is a lefty, she writes often, prefers a purple pen, and takes notes as part of her job." Enola stood, returning to Lestrade and John.

"Overall, I'd say she is a business inspector for transportation, most likely at one of the surrounding buildings. She was lured here by her killer, and he murdered her." Lestrade now raised his eyebrows, scribbling in his pad.

"_He _murdered her?" he asked. Enola nodded, obviously biting back the usual Sherlock response of "isn't it obvious?" and instead proceeded to explain.

"Due to the force of the push, the angle of the bruises on the back, and the depth of the knife wound, I would say a man around the height of six two or three, well-built." She smiled and turned to John. "Now, I'm sorry if I seem cold, but I'm absolutely famished, so if we could go back to the flat at the latest convenience, I would be greatly relieved." John nodded.

"Oh, right, of course!" he said, still trying to shake himself of the fact that this woman had gently explained everything anyone could need to know to find the killer without pointing out the obvious…who did it. As John rushed over to stop a cab, Lestrade stopped her.

"Thank you, Miss Holmes," he said. She smiled and turned to go, before turning back to him again.

"DI Lestrade?" Lestrade turned back from the crime scene to face her. Enola smiled sadly. "I am so sorry about your divorce…it must be just awful." Lestrade looked shocked, but nodded, before rushing off to give orders to Andersen. Enola walked over to the second layer of yellow tape, moving to duck under it when a woman appeared out of nowhere. Curly black hair frizzled out around black skin to soften the hard looks of the Sergeant. Enola smiled knowingly at her for a moment.

"So…you're the freak's sister?" the woman asked. Enola raised an eyebrow at the nickname, but said nothing. Finally, she spoke.

"Oh, I am sorry, Sergeant for flirting with your partner, Mr. Andersen. I did not realize you were having an affair," Enola said, purely innocently. The woman stared at the way this girl spoke and just as Enola ducked under the tape to leave, the woman jutted out her hand. Enola shook it calmly.

"Sergeant Sally Donovan," she said.

"Enola Holmes," the girl replied. Sally nodded, a small smile almost reaching her face.

"Well, Enola, you may be the first normal Holmes I've met yet," she said. Enola chuckled lightly, before walking down the street a little bit. She slowed when she heard Sally shout out, "Are there any more of you then?" She turned back to Sally, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

"Now, where would be the fun in telling you?" she called back, jogging in her flats to catch up with John, who was yet to hail a cab. She stretched out her hand and a cab pulled to the curb. She opened the door for John and he just shook his head at her in amazement.

"You know, you will never stop to amaze me?" he said as they sped down the streets of London towards the flat. Enola turned in her seat to face him, eyebrows raised.

"Really and why is that?" she asked. John shrugged.

"The difference between you and Sherlock…it's remarkable, really," he said with a shake of his head. Enola chuckled with him after a moment.

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" John watched her face, as her perfectly shaped lips revealed white teeth, with the front two slightly crooked. It was cute, making her look even younger than she probably was. He leaned forward and she watched him curiously. "What is your story?" he asked. Enola's curiously teasing look fell to a blank expression, one similar to Sherlock's and she shrugged, turning back to look out the window as the lights and shops flew by.

"I was born twenty years after Mycroft, and ten after Sherlock," she started after a long pause. John leaned back in his seat, watching the girl's expression. She swallowed. "I am sixteen this coming Valentines Day. I was an accident, and an unwanted one at that. My father was away on business for all of my mother's pregnancy and most of my childhood. Sherlock was away at university, smoking heroin and marijuana and God knows what else…he never liked me." Here she snorted and her eyes flicked to John's before returning to the window. "Not that he likes anyone, really. My mother became caught up in her own life soon after I was born, and left me in the care of nannies and tutors. Mycroft had just started to establish a government position by this time, and his control was gaining by the day. He was really the only one to finally step in and take responsibility for me. He raised me, had a full-on staff to take care of me in a small seaside house in Maldon and raised me there. Sherlock has not seen me since he stormed out on that one Christmas Eve party when I was eight; drunk, most likely high, all that nonsense. The only reason I am even here is because Mother wanted me to socialize with people every once in a while and occasionally she sends me to London. This time, Mycroft could not look after me, so Sherlock was forced to do his brotherly duties." She sighed as the cab pulled up to 221B. John paid and they made their way up the stairs slowly.

She dumped her coat on a chair and flopped on the sofa, grabbing Sherlock's violin and drawing out a note. Slowly, the same melody John had heard previously washed over him and he waited until she had finished.

"Now that you understand everything and know my story, I believe we have a better understanding of each other," she said after a while. John nodded slowly and turned to go into his room, but he froze at the door.

"I am sorry, Enola," he said. "I am truly, truly sorry." Enola smiled sadly, and a sad tune echoed throughout the sitting room as John shut his door softly.

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**A/N: Be sure to leave a review!**

**Blaire3**


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